


Icon Fic-drops

by apple_pi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Original Work, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings RPF, Where's Waldo - Martin Handford
Genre: Crack, Ficlets, Multi, You've been warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People gave me icons, I wrote fics. The icons aren't here (more's the pity) but there's a brief description, where needed. The last one is particular crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watch

Dom likes the way that watch looks on Billy’s wrist—heavy and thick, confining, unyielding. It feels good, too: slick and buttery when Dom’s fingers skim along the smooth leather. Smells good, tastes alright, if a little bitter. (Billy laughed when Dom licked it.) Dom likes the way Billy watches him play with the watch; Dom slides his fingertips under the edges, runs them along the lip between skin and hide. 

Dom likes taking the watch off Billy’s wrist even more. The skin is paler, beneath, even though Billy is not and never will be tanned; still, the wide band of pallor is almost shocking against the rest of his arm. The skin is softer, too, when Billy first takes off the watch: tender and salty to the tongue, lined where the buckles have etched their imprint into the flesh.

Dom licks softly at the inside of Billy’s wrist, and Billy sighs and closes his eyes and waits for Dom to unwrap the rest of his body, to find all the tender, sensitive places that are paler, softer, smoother, harder. Billy waits and Dom smiles and presses another damp kiss to his skin, slips his tongue over the jut of bone at Billy’s wrist, and laces his fingers with Billy’s.


	2. Press Junket

 

(Icon: Dom leaning toward Billy’s face, Billy in a pink shirt, at a press tour interview)

 

*

“You’re such a freak, Monaghan,” Billy said. He was still wearing the pink shirt... sort of.

“Please,” Dom said. His voice buzzed pleasantly against Billy’s thigh. “I’ve seen the way you eat biscuits, Boyd. Glass houses, my man, glass houses.” He sighed and licked contentedly at the closest bit of skin.

Billy squirmed and pushed Dom’s head; it slid to the bed. Billy ignored Dom’s muffled complaint. “What if I’d really kissed you?”

Dom propped himself up, chin in his hands, the long, sleek lines of his back distracting, leading Billy’s eye away down the bed in a gleam of bare, damp skin. “Mmm. Should’ve. Couldn’t resist that pink shirt.”

“Freak,” Billy repeated. He heaved himself up and shook off the remains of the shirt—one sleeve clinging stubbornly to its duty—and then flopped back against the hotel room pillows.

“It takes a very secure man to wear a pink shirt,” Dom said.

“Secure in his masculinity,” Billy agreed. He pushed Dom’s fringe lazily out of his eyes.

Dom smiled, sleepy and predatory. “Prove it,” he drawled, and ruined it by snickering.

“Give me a few minutes,” Billy said, and he grinned.


	3. Anchor

The first time Dom blew Billy, he felt the faint, desperate scrabble of fingertips against his scalp, Billy grasping for purchase, the scrape of his knuckles and nails as Billy shoved his cock forward and came with a grunt and his hands gripping Dom’s shorn skull. Later, as Dom’s hair grew back, it was better, easier. And now Dom pushes his head up against Billy’s lax hands and sucks hard until he hears Billy’s low chuckle and feels his fingers twist into his hair, feels Billy grip and take control, drag Dom into the right rhythm, sucking and gasping and choking as he moans. Dom feels Billy’s hands curl into fists in his hair and he breathes deep through his nose, readying, and there: Billy groans and shudders and thrusts forward as he comes, shoving balls-deep into Dom’s mouth, spurting into his throat. Dom sucks and swallows and doesn’t stop until Billy’s hands loosen, until he unclenches his fists and combs gently through Dom’s hair, soothing the ache and burn of his scalp beneath the thin, tangled locks of hair.


	4. On a Clear Day (You Can See Billy's Bits)

 

(Icon: Billy's pink panties, in _On a Clear Day_ )

 

*

 

“Naked?” Dom said, and Billy threw a handful of popcorn at him.

“It was for artistic purposes,” he said.

Dom picked popcorn out of his hair and ate it. “Pink?”

Billy looked back at the screen, where he was folding a pair of bright pink knickers, pinky extended fastidiously. “Also for artistic purposes,” he said after a moment’s consideration.

They watched. “And the tucking?” Dom said.

Billy narrowed his eyes at Dom. “It’s a family film.”

“Mm.” Dom smirked.

A moment later he was showered with popcorn again.

“It was _cold_ on that set,” Billy said.


	5. Naranja, Anaranjada

 (Icon: Diego Rivera painting of a young girl helping pick oranges)

 

*

 

By the end of the day, her hands were stained with juice and sap, green and fragrant, calloused where the bark and leaves had scoured. It didn’t hurt.

Her back hurt, and her neck hurt. At first she was too little for the picking, and she stood on the ground, reaching up for what her brothers passed down. Her arms were thin and wiry, and sometimes she could see that they made the same shapes, reaching up, as the branches of the trees. Later she climbed the wooden ladders herself and passed down to her _primos_ , listening to her mother and _tias_ chatter nearby, plucking one globe after another from the branch, twigs catching on skin too roughened to feel it. There was no beauty in it, really, but sometimes she said words in her head, rhythms that matched the rhythm of her hands, pulling the fruit from its stems, words that matched the rip and tear of wood from wood: _naranja, anaranjada, naranja, anaranjada_. Over and over until they drowned out the rustle of leaves and shouts of family.

At the end of the day her hands smelled sweet, bright as the fruit, but when she put her tongue to the skin, to her fingertips or the sap-smeared palms of her hands, the taste was bitter. She tasted it anyway, every day, and then washed her hands and tied her kerchief and went to dinner, back and neck aching, hands clean and rough.


	6. Sometimes

“Who d’you wank to?” Billy asked, (apparently) much too drunk to have the sense god gave geese, as Dom’s mother used to say.

“You,” Dom replied, and then thought probably he had overindulged just a weensy bit, himself, as utter horror swam fishily through his veins and he squelched the desire to kill himself right then and there, possibly utilising the steak knives that gleamed dully from their wooden block to his left. He tacked on a leer, though, and smirked at Billy to cover, licking his lips lasciviously, hamming it up. 

_Obviously not terribly drunk_ , Dom thought. _I can still think of the word lascivious_.

Billy blinked and licked his lips... not lasciviously. Absently. He was staring at Dom, though, and Dom felt like he should say something else, since it felt like it had been quiet for a little too long.

“Um,” he said. “What about you?”

“Used to have a thing for Marisa Tomei,” Billy said vaguely. “Are you gay?”

“Sometimes,” Dom said, and looked away to take a hasty drink. _Best to blame all this on alcohol_ , he thought, and noticed Billy wasn’t talking—again, damn him. _Not gonna talk first, not gonna talk first_ , Dom thought stubbornly, peeling the label off his beer bottle with ferocious attention.

“Wanna go have a wank now?” Billy asked, barely audible. “Wi’ me?”

The kitchen counter was completely snowed under by tiny bits of shredded paper from Dom’s bottle. He curled his hands up tightly, pushing the defaced bottle away.

“Are you gay?” Dom mumbled.

“Well, you’re no Marisa Tomei,” Billy said. He patted Dom’s hand, then slid his hand beneath Dom’s and laced their fingers together carefully. Billy’s palm was sweaty and hot. “But.”

“But _what_?” Dom heard himself whine, and he tried really hard to pretend that he wasn’t hard in his jeans.

“But...” Billy squeezed his hand. “Sometimes.”


	7. Photoshop

 (Icon: Photoshopped BillynDom-kissing pic)

 

*

 

 

“Your trousers are falling down.” Billy leaned over Dom’s shoulder to peer at the computer screen, crunching an apple loudly.

Dom swatted at him. “Would you mind not spraying bits of masticated apple on me?” He clicked on the picture and squinted at it. “They’re supposed to be falling down,” he said. “It’s stylish, you know.”

“Oh.” Billy continued to crunch, though he straightened. “Looks stupid.”

“Irresistible,” Dom corrected. “Nice body, too.”

“S’okay.” Billy tilted his head. “Mine’s better.”

“I beg your pardon,” Dom said. “Don’t be ridiculous.” They looked at it for a moment longer. “Anyway, your trousers are falling off, too,” Dom sniffed. “Wanna see another one?”

“Sure.” Billy tossed the apple core at the bin and circled the chair to place his bare bottom on Dom’s bare thigh. “Are we naked?”

“Yep.” Dom smirked and clicked.


	8. Factory Work

 (Icon: photo of a very young Elijah Wood, perhaps crying)

*

 

 _Cry_ , they’d say, and Elijah cried. He cried on cue, at the drop of a hat—once or twice, in a bar with his castmates, to win a bet. It was weird, but part of what he did. He could laugh that way, too, though it sounded false in his own ears. But it was useful enough, the ability to produce whatever was needed. And he was a sincere person—the emotions he showed off-screen were real, he wouldn’t use his acting when the cameras weren’t rolling. Well, no more than anyone else, he told himself.

In Chicago on a job, he left the set to eat in a nearby restaurant; it was clear the waitress had never seen him before, and he relaxed, sitting in a booth, slumped against the wall, one leg propped on the seat.

“What do you do?” she asked him incuriously, and Elijah considered for a moment.

“Manufacturing,” he said, and she nodded and asked if he’d want some ketchup at the table.


	9. It's Nice. Different.

(Icon: Royd Tolkien, at the 2005 Ring*Con)

After Ring*Con:

THE SCENE: A hotel bar, late at night. Very late at night. The bar is mostly empty; the only patrons are a table of giggling young women in one dark corner, and two men sitting at the bar, hunched tiredly over pints. BILLY BOYD is fair-haired, in his mid-thirties and rather small; ROYD TOLKIEN is taller, also in his thirties, and wearing what appears to be a woman’s hair band.

BILLY: “So what’s with the hair band... thingy?”

ROYD: “I dunno. I just like it.”

BILLY: “Really?”

ROYD: “Keeps my hair out of my eyes.”

BILLY: [under his breath] “So would a haircut.”

ROYD: “What?”

BILLY: “Nothing, nothing. S’nice. Different.”

ROYD: [takes a drink] “You think it’s weird, don’t you?”

BILLY: “Eh. I don’t know.”

ROYD: “Think it’s girly, Boyd?”

BILLY: “Maybe a wee bit... Royd.”

[snickering]

ROYD: “At least I have hair to get in my eyes.”

BILLY: [lifts his pint in acknowledgment] “A point.”

ROYD: [lifts his pint graciously in response] “Thank you very much.”


	10. Noir

(Icon: Severus Snape, all in black)

It takes effort, all that black. Severus Snape courts it, cultivates it. The dungeon-inspired pallor for contrast, the high clerical collars, the sweep of black robes over black boots; the gloves he uses for handling dangerous ingredients are Hebridean Black dragon hide, special ordered by owl. Snape finds that his rather noir appearance can be useful in many ways; it is intimidating, mysterious and lends itself well to blending into shadows. And so he doesn’t sigh when he casts the simple charm that will hide his multiplying grey hairs, and he avoids icing-sugar-covered puddings with scarcely a twinge. Occasionally, though, the potions master looks at Albus’s eccentric spangled robes, or Minerva’s plaid formal wear, and allows himself a small, private sigh. 


	11. Jolly

(Icon: Snape & Lupin - oh, if only things had not gone so unutterably wrong)

Snape squints in the sun, looking uncomfortably hot in his usual impenetrable black, but he keeps up with Lupin’s long strides easily, and it’s only mid-afternoon when they reach the furthest point from the castle on their rounds, checking the walls about Hogwarts before the new school year begins.

“Break?” Lupin asks, and Snape shakes his head, looking rather longingly at the shade offered under the eaves of the Forbidden Forest, twenty meters or so away. “Too bad,” Lupin says, smiling slightly; “I need a rest.” He leads the way toward the dappled edge of the wood.

They sit under a spreading oak and eat the sandwiches drawn from Lupin’s small pack; Snape produces a silver flask, to be passed back and forth. “Do you have your lesson plans ready?” Lupin asks after a while, and Snape directs a rather withering glare at him.

“I’ve taught the class for nearly fifteen years,” he says. “I think I’ll manage to scrape by.”

Lupin’s lips quirk. “So you have,” he says. “I’m panicking, myself.”

“You did well enough when you had the position—before,” Snape says after a while. He offers the flask to Lupin again; pockets it when Lupin shakes his head. “You’ll be fine,” Snape says, leaning back on his hands. “You will, within a week, doubtless have crying first-years clinging to your robes as they tell you all about their homesickness.”

“If I’m really lucky, the sixth years will ask me to come to you for birth-control potions,” Lupin says, smiling broadly. “Won’t that be jolly.”

“I am virtually a-quiver with anticipation,” Snape drawls, stretching his legs. One heavy boot knocks gently, accidentally, against Lupin’s brown shoe.

Lupin tips his shoe sideways, bumping Snape’s foot in return. “I’ll refuse,” he says. “I’ll send them to you, no reprieve, no assistance. They’ll knock timidly at your dungeon and ask for what they want in hoarse, terrified whispers.”

Sunlight shifts and slips across his face as a stray breeze stirs the branches over their heads, and Snape doesn’t move his foot away from Lupin’s. “I’ll turn them all to toads,” Snape murmurs, malice and amusement evident in his voice in equal measure.

Lupin snorts. “You’re not the transfiguration professor,” he sniffs with exaggerated disdain. “You couldn’t even get the Defence Against the Dark Arts job back.”

Snape gapes for a moment, and then hears the perfect parody of his own sneer and looks away, a smile curling his lips against his will. “I’ll poison them, then,” he mutters, and when he flicks his eyes back, Lupin is grinning, and gazing right at him.


	12. Chapter 12

(Icon: a tumbler of whisky)

The trousers Dom is wearing, Billy reflects, make him look more naked than actually nudity. They're chocolate-coloured leather, slick and shining in the slick, shining lights that flash and swoop across the dancers, and they’ve worked themselves down his waist until the sharp jut of hipbones is visible, and a strip of bare, pale skin between the bottom of his shirt and the top of the trousers. Billy’s eyes move up (the shirt is forgettable, polyester-white-trash-made-in-nowhere) and he thinks that Dom’s eyeliner has something to do with the lewd, nude look he’s sporting tonight. His face gleams with sweat, and the eyeliner is smudged, smeared about his lashes. His eyes, when the lights dazzle past them, are startlingly luminous in that blurry black setting.

Billy's tired of the club—the music is noise, and he’s missed Dom too much to have patience for this night, and he doesn’t want to stand here at the bar anymore and watch Dom dance. He wants to be somewhere else. Billy takes Dom home.

Stepping back into the lounge after a brief detour to the loo, Billy reflects that no, Dom didn’t look naked in the trousers, in the shirt, in the eyeliner, in the club. He looks naked now, though, because he is: sprawled on Billy’s dark brown sofa with a tumbler of Billy’s light brown whisky cradled on the taut, flat skin below his navel. The eyeliner is all that remains of his outfit, and Billy thinks, as he comes closer, as Dom smiles sleepily up at him with those same luminous eyes, limbs tumbled carelessly across leather, that this is where he wanted to be. This place, and nowhere else.


	13. A Chilly Day in Hell

(Icon: Dom’s too-loose trousers in a paparazzi photo)

“Not a chance,” Billy said flatly when Dom first asked him, “have you seen that thing in the mirror? Not a chance in hell,” and Dom smirked a little and felt, actually, quite disappointed, but. Well, it wasn’t as though he could be really offended, could he?

And the disappointment is gone now, too, because tonight Billy is lying still and breathing quickly under him, and Dom works his way inward, sweat trickling down his temples, stinging his eyes. Everything is slippery—they used half a tube of Astroglide, at least, and Dom can barely grip Billy’s hips at all, his hands are so slick and clumsy—and Billy groans quietly as Dom begins to move, finally. “Oh,” Dom manages, trying not to come instantly at the sheer heat and pressure and _God_... ”Okay?” Dom gasps. He strokes inward, runs his hand over Billy’s back at the same time.

“Uh-huh,” Billy grunts, and pushes back onto Dom. “Just go.” His voice is small, but steady. One hand comes back to pat Dom’s hip.

Dom lowers his head and moves. He comes quickly, only a minute or so later, still moving slowly so that his orgasm is slow, too. It seems to go on and on, wave after wave washing over and out of his body as he trembles and moans, wrapped tightly around Billy from behind, held within the tight grip of his body. He stays where he is, after, and reaches around to stroke Billy’s half-erect cock to hardness again; Billy doesn’t take long, either, and when he peaks with a cry, the clamp of his muscles pushes Dom’s softening cock right out, even as Dom’s hand continues pulling, stroking, squeezing the last shudders of pleasure from Billy.

“Mmmm,” Dom hums a few minutes later, curled around Billy, hand cupped between sticky wet thighs. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Billy half-laughs, half-snorts. “I dunno, my kidneys beg to differ.”

“Did I hurt you?” Dom says with concern, struggling up over him, trying to see Billy’s face.

Billy turns to lie beneath him, damp and heavy-lidded, smiling, still flushed. “I’m fine. Sore, though.”

Dom can't help his smirk at that. “Naturally.”

Billy rolls his eyes and slaps Dom’s hip lightly. “Hubris, Dominic,” he warns, and Dom grins and kisses his nose.

“Thank you,” he says, and Billy smiles wider.

“You’re welcome.”


	14. Challenge Accepted

(Icons: Boromir; Waldo of "Where's Waldo?" There's a moral to this story, children, and it's that Pi is always willing to go to the weird place when challenged.)

Nobody could think where the odd fellow dressed all in red and white had come from, but he seemed to have invited himself along on the quest, all unasked for. He never talked, but he smiled a lot, and Gandalf said he didn’t think the bloke was evil, so they let him be. He didn’t eat much, anyhow— “Less than the blasted halflings,” Boromir muttered to anyone nearby, and that was a mercy, since the hobbits seemed to need lots of feeding. “For their bloody orgies,” Boromir snarled quietly, and the only person nearby (again) was the fellow dressed in red and white, who smiled sympathetically and trotted along beside him. “How can they be so small and yet so heavy?” Boromir grouses after Caradhras, sitting in a tree with wolves snapping at his heels; the red-and-white fellow shrugs cheerfully and pulls his feet higher. In Moria, Boromir stubs his toe on every single Dwarf-carved stone, and holds his ill-usage in until they camp in the everlasting bedamned darkness, when he pours out a litany of harshly whispered complaint to his brightly dressed friend. The skinny chap never answers, but Boromir is sure that he’s still smiling. After Moria (and what a balls-up that was, Boromir grunts as they run toward Lothlorien) things are easy for a while—sure, it’s sad that Gandalf is gone and all, but Lothlorien, while creepy, does seem to have an endless supply of decent food and they all get a nice bathe. The red and white-dressed bloke sits by the stream and smiles up at the trees like a simpleton, but Boromir’s gotten accustomed, after all, and he splashes around in the chilly water and tells his silent, smiling companion about growing up, about Faramir’s bloody goody-two-shoes attitude, and how his dad expects Boromir to be just like him. “Sometimes I just want to be like everyone else,” Boromir says. “Maybe have a nice house in the third circle, raise pigeons on the roof.” They leave Lothlorien in boats, and it’s only a few days later that the orcs find them on the lakeshore. “Hide!” Boromir yells, but red and white stand out dreadfully in the sere winter wood, and the stripey chap is struck down quickly. Boromir doesn’t have time to worry about it, what with all the arrows and goblins and the two idiot halflings who seem to think throwing rocks is a great strategy for taking down two-hundred pound Uruk-hai, but he mentions the silent fellow’s fate to Aragorn later, after he says something about the hobbits being taken off to be made into sushi or whatever it is that orcs do to portable, wriggly hors d’oeuvres.

“I suppose his fate found him,” Aragorn says kindly, “but you must rest, my friend, so that I may heal you.” He kisses Boromir suddenly, and Boromir wonders where the hell that came from. But he doesn’t get a chance to ask, because he dies.


End file.
